I’m writing this from our cabin on the Scenic Eclipse I in comfy clothes while Greg naps. The ship is about to leave Húsavík, Iceland. The North Atlantic, it turns out, does not particularly care about our planned itinerary. More on that next week. Before all this, there was London.

Last week I wrote about the “yes, and” of this trip — Greg’s pull toward expedition, my conditions for saying yes. What I didn’t mention is that London was part of those conditions too, though perhaps not in the way you’d expect.

Iceland has a nonstop from Seattle, but it’s on a 737. A few years ago we flew a 737 in business class to Costa Rica — a six-hour flight — and we both came off that plane saying never again. Iceland from Seattle is over eight hours, and it’s an overnight. So when the routing through London presented itself, with a proper lie-flat option, the decision wasn’t difficult. Greg loves London. I do too, even if there are other European cities I’d choose first. And once we were going anyway, we decided to do it properly: just the city, on our own terms, for the first time.

We’ve both been to London more times than we can count, but always tethered to work. This trip was different. We chose it and designed it, which meant we got to decide what London looked like when nobody else had a claim on our time. For us that meant three kinds of days: the old favorites we always make time for, the things we’d always meant to do but never had, and the things we didn’t plan at all. The British Museum fell into the second category — and I’ll be honest, I’d had some hesitation about it.

Two hours there was the right amount of time. Without Ivo, I suspect we would have lasted less than forty-five minutes given the conditions.

I’m aware of the colonial acquisition history, and there’s a particular discomfort in contributing to an institution that profits from things that arguably belong somewhere else and to someone else. The museum itself resolved at least one part of that: general admission is free. We paid for a private guide with a local tour company, and that turned out to be one of the best decisions of the London portion of our trip.

Our guide was Ivo, from Portugal. He had encyclopedic knowledge of Egyptian, Roman, Greek, and other civilizations and was a great storyteller. London was unseasonably hot, and the museum was stifling — the kind of crowded, airless afternoon that turns self-guided visits into endurance tests. Ivo kept us focused and moving, navigating around the worst of the crowds while making the collection feel genuinely alive rather than overwhelming. 

Once he understood that we had opinions and a sense of humor, he wove the politics in alongside the history. He told us about the Greek government trying to get the Parthenon sculptures back since 1983, and how that’s gone for them. Greece built an entire museum at the base of the Acropolis specifically to remove Britain’s stated objection and Britain essentially responded with a diplomatic shrug. This is one of those stories that becomes funnier and more maddening the more detail you add.

The Connaught Bar was also on the “always meant to do” list — specifically for the martini cart, which I’d been reading about for years. The bar operates without reservations — you simply show up, hope for a table, and wait if there isn’t one. We got lucky by going early on a Monday evening. The ritual involves a trolley wheeled to your table, your choice of gin or vodka, a selection of aromatic handmade bitters, and a martini assembled table-side, stirred with slow-frozen ice, poured from a height, finished with your chosen garnish. It’s cocktail theater, and it earns the description. I’m a martini person, so I generally have opinions on the topic, and this one was excellent.

Borough Market was the same — something we’d always wanted to do on work trips and never made time for. It’s completely worth the time. The market has been operating since 1756 and covers several blocks under Victorian ironwork and railway arches near London Bridge. The cheese shops alone justify the trip, ranging from British farmhouse varieties to aged French imports. The French Comté stall had wheels aged at 12, 18, 24, and 36 months available for tasting side by side, which is exactly the kind of thing that I can lose an hour to. 

There’s also a wine-by-the-glass culture throughout — several vendors will pour you a glass and let you wander with it, which is my preferred way to explore a market on a hot afternoon.

Lina Stores was none of the above, it was pure discovery. It’s a pasta restaurant grown from a delicatessen that’s been in operation since 1944. Greg found it as an on-the-fly lunch spot and on our first visit we were seated at the counter because the dining room was full. The counter area consisted of twelve stools with an open kitchen directly in front of us, and my first reaction was mild disappointment. My second, about thirty seconds after we were seated, was that we had the best seats in the house. We watched the pasta station from arm’s length for the entire lunch: every shape and style of pasta was fresh and stored in refrigerated drawers below the station. I had a shrimp pasta with butter, lemon, garlic, and marjoram, paired with a minerally Gavi that was perfect for a hot afternoon. Greg had the carbonara — he considers himself something of a connoisseur on the subject — and he was impressed. We went back for lunch a second day.

On our last day, with the more structured part of the London leg behind us, Greg wanted to find Daunt Books — an original Edwardian bookshop where the travel section is organized geographically rather than by genre, so novels, history, and guides for the same destination share a shelf. So we walked down Marylebone High Street with no particular agenda. It turned out to be exactly the kind of morning we love — aimlessly wandering neighborhood streets, open for whatever comes. Not the London of queues and landmarks, but the London where people actually live. 

That afternoon we caught The Devil Wears Prada, with music by Elton John, at the Dominion Theatre. Given that Elton is my favorite musical artist, it was a natural choice for us — and a deliberate counterweight to the last show I chose in London. Player Kings, with Sir Ian McKellen, was a masterclass in Shakespearean theatre that ran over three hours. Greg recognized the talent, but at intermission, he assumed it was over. He was sadly mistaken. This one was enthusiastically embraced by both of us. Vanessa Williams, as Miranda Priestly, was excellent.

Afterwards we met some old work colleagues for happy hour, which was exactly the right way to close out four days in a city that had, as it turns out, a few things left to show us.

Reykjavik and the ship are up next — and the North Atlantic, as I mentioned, has its own ideas about itineraries. More next week.